


for tonight

by VesperRegina



Category: Galileo (TV Japan)
Genre: 30kisses, F/M, Outercourse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing a Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-21 08:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10681425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperRegina/pseuds/VesperRegina
Summary: A shared room; a tipping point.





	for tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [science and progress](https://archiveofourown.org/works/896757) by [revolutionnaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionnaire/pseuds/revolutionnaire). 



> It's no secret that I really love revolutionnaire's _Galileo_ stories. In "science and progress" she takes this scenario and writes around events ambiguously, leaving us in doubt as to what happened when Yukawa and Utsumi shared a room. I like to think that it didn't go as far as I explore in this story, but I also wanted to explore the possibility of it going this far and how that would have turned out. This missing scene was written in a spirit of admiration of the original story and I hope it's received in the same way. This fills prompt #24 in the 30 Kisses prompt list of 'good night'.

Her hair clings cool to the tips of his fingers, and he curves them further in, takes an unholy joy in the flare of her nostrils, pulling in air, and the leap of her pulse in her neck, there under his thumb. He expects the sharp crack of rebuke, but it never comes, only the palpable wait of expectation, on the verge of boiling over, a wealth of courage in the frankness of her face. The still damp nape of her neck warms even in the space of the two seconds before she whispers, "What are we doing?"

"I'm going to kiss you," he states, just as low, just as wondering and remote as she.

"Oh," she answers and the murmur of it hums into his mouth, goes straight down his spine in sympathetic vibration, coils heat into his stomach like the first sip of morning coffee. Her mouth gives under the soft take of his, responsive but tentative, as he feels out the best angle of pressure. Her hand closes on some of the fabric under his arm, not quite pulling, and she sways closer, but he's off-balance in this negotiation of personal space, and so is she, and when she does go backward, sinks to the floor, with him following, unable to -- unwilling to -- break contact, the slow fall of it seems inevitable.

Her mouth opens and for a moment he breathes her in, and then she turns her head away. He looks down at her. Her eyes are half-closed, her mouth open, and the robe half off her shoulder, her hair coiled and mussed, a dark halo around her dazed face.

He traces the swell of her breast, cautious over the tip of the nipple under the thin fabric, notes the rise and fall of her sternum with her breath, the opening of her eyes to focus unflinching on his face. The itch in his fingers returns; the irrational wanting to touch and worship skin, to see the cause and effect of his touch on her body. He slips his hand into the knot of her robe, pulls it loose, his fingertips brushing skin underneath. 

The mat under them bites at the heel of his hand, as he holds himself over her, support so he can lift his other hand up, press two fingers to her lower lip, trail them away to the curve of her neck and shoulder -- her eyelids flicker, eyes hiding under her fluttering eyelashes, and she holds her breath -- down to her collarbone, covered by the overlap of her clothing, a pull at the gap and then lingering there, with the pause of a silent question, waiting. 

She raises herself up on one elbow; the robe slips off more, exposes bare skin and the point of her nipple, shadowed within. She pulls him closer, her hand around the nape of his neck now and her mouth fervent on his, then gone, and he can almost feel the air between them swell with indecision, unasked questions breathing in her mouth, but then she nods, small, and lies back again. She reaches for his hand, places it between her breasts. No words, only actions, efficient communication, and he smiles down on her, brief and curving soft on his lips and once again she nods, her mouth forming around the word 'yes', soundless. 

The cloth falls away, moved by his hand. Utsumi's eyes close. The body that was bare to the privy of her bath, she now allows him to witness, to caress. A small question of why lingers, but her permission was plain to see. He touches her skin, learns the feel of its smoothness, the ridges of ribs as her breath pushes that frame of her up, the softness of her stomach, and hollow of her navel, his thumb passing over it, to scrape over the edge of grey cotton panties. Her knee comes up in response, knocks against his elbow, and he moves himself over, to nestle better, allowance for reach, head by her shoulder. She sighs when his hand covers her hip, her body quite warm through the cotton, trails up the thigh, over her knee and eases it over, widens the space. No rejection, no closing of the space he's created, though she turns her head to the side, and he looks at her face again, close to him, her mouth open.

She arches up, almost rolls to the side, when he slides his fingers lower, delves into slick flesh that clenches around his fingers, pulses with her heartbeat. Again, as he rubs, he creates a set of data: the combination of textures, reactions, sounds, incomplete but rapidly growing. She moves, sinuous, and curls her hand next to her face, eyes closed now, but with quiet moans shaking her. 

He watches her come slowly undone under his hand: the tip of her chin rising, her neck exposed, her hips -- her entire body -- moving. It's almost like winding a music box, the key becoming more difficult to move as it is turned. The sight of her like this is headier than any natural high he's ever chased. He's so lost in it, that when she goes taut, her hips high off the floor, quivering, it comes as a thorough surprise. Her shuddering exhale lowers her down, and then she's twisting away from his hand -- the unexpected effect of that is as of a drug denied -- the need to repeat how she reacts to his touch a shock through him, as he surmises this is all she'll grant him.

But she turns back to him, pushes him down with a delicate strength and swiftness of movement that he submits to almost as an afterthought, and he gazes up at her, admiring, but her eyes are dark and intent, somber between the curtains of her hair, as she undoes his robe. He understands then -- as she sinks down on him, moves on him, the soft friction of their underwear between them -- this is the safest course of action.

That washes away with a flood of sensation, even so -- white-hot and electric -- the sound of a low-rising keen in her throat and the smell of her hair falling around him, her head bending low, her breasts crushed against his skin, and he reaches up again to clasp his hand around her neck, surges up to capture her mouth. She moans and he spends, lost to her.

He blinks, his eyelashes catching on wisps of her dry hair, feeling her thumb in the corner of his mouth, her fingers splayed on his cheekbone, a mirror to his same touch that unwound him, that spread through him like toxin, swift and undoing all control. Her cheek presses on his clavicle, all of her weight on him, just for a second, two breaths in and out, and then her footsteps sound in the mat beside his ear, and he's burning with cold and loss.

The sound of the bathroom door opening and closing, soft as it is, still resounds, and he's too late to see her go through, when he sits up, gathering his robe around, but no more. There is no sign of her returning, and he stares across the space, unwilling to move. This is something new; to be so bereft after, as though he lost something more of himself -- gave something more -- in this unplanned impulse than he could have expected. He shuts his eyes, allows the weight of what they've done to sit heavy on his shoulders, bowing his head, then stands.

She opens the door just as he reaches for the handle. She slides past him, eyes down, silent, and he opens his mouth, only to find that his words are gone, too. She busies herself with the turning down of her bed, and though he should clean himself up, his focus lingers too long on her movements, drunk on the oddness of her clothed again, except for what the yukata still reveals: her hands, her arms, her bare feet. His memory is faulty already; greedy for verification of her form.

She starts to turn, and his heart gives a warning leap, spurring him into the bath. A safe space for all of two seconds, when he spots her underwear dangling, damp, from a clip on a hanger. He covers his face with his hand, closes his eyes and attempts to slow his treacherous heart with steady breaths.

This is not regret that is rampaging through -- scattering his thoughts and shaking him so he cannot focus on what needs to be done -- this is fear. Utsumi's forbidding quiet reeks of it too, but it's done now, it's done; they were incautious, followed an impulse, and now fulfilled, it looms in the space between them, a monstrous reminder that they will have to face this change.

Necessities must be taken care of however. She's faced the clean-up and he must too.

She's covered to her shoulders with the thick duvet, back turned, when he returns to their room. There's not much else left but to follow her example. 

How strange that such a sensible choice to take the one room could turn on them so. How strange this awkward unfamiliarity sullying the air and churning up the ground between them.

He says, testing that unknowable, "Good night, Utsumi."

She gives no sign she's heard him, but as he turns to get comfortable, she says, "Good night, Professor," and a tightness in his chest eases.

It's not enough, but it will have to suffice. It will have to last until they can face it in bright sunlight. The darkness of the room leaves nothing but room for the knowledge that once is not enough and the agonizing inability to know what the future holds.


End file.
